Thank God I'm Frank

By Gene Palmisano

Thank God I’m Frank, is a true story of when I rescued my aging father from himself. After navigating a complex medical legal system in Minnesota, I persevered to bring my ailing father home to live out his days at my ranch in Colorado.

This is a memoir about dementia, alcoholism, and dysfunctional family bonds that leave most people eviscerated and scarred for life. It's a story of empathy, love, and admiration, a story of catharsis, improving the quality of a dying man’s life in spite of his recidivist tendency to self-destruct.

Written in the first person, present tense, Thank God I'm Frank is an objectivist's manifesto of reality, tackling the bitter consequences of life that often impose on our happiness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gene Palmisano
• Release date: May 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301206582

Gene Palmisano

Gene Palmisano is the author of Thank God I’m Frank. He has published numerous biographies and short stories in newspapers and national magazines. He writes books and blogs from his ranch in the wilds of Colorado, where he lives of grid with his wife Robin.

Book preview

Thank God I'm Frank

Gene Palmisano

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Gene Palmisano

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Table of Contents

The Rescue

Homeward Bound

Teepee Wind Ranch

Spring

Summer

Fall

Winter

Impending Spring

Enter the Lawyers

Two Birds, One Stone

Acknowledgements

My deepest gratitude goes to my wife Robin. Had she said no, Frank would never have set foot in Colorado. He would have become a ward of the state of Minnesota, forfeited his meager assets, and been placed in nursing home of their choosing — a place where he would live in isolation from his family and loved ones, a place where he would surely choose to compound his suffering and die alone amidst strangers.

Special thanks to my son Tyler who played his role admirably and bought a smile to an old man's face.

Foreword

I knew that Frank couldn't live in that apartment for much longer; he was ninety-two years old for Christ's sake. He had failed an eye exam and lost his license to drive. That made him dependent on others for the first time in his life. I had set him up with a ride share program and some other senior services, but he would have none of it. He preferred to burden others in his apartment building instead. This turned out to be his undoing, for at his age, Frank was very needy. In the end, Alzheimers, depression, isolation, and a morbid preoccupation with suffering all contributed to his loss of autonomy and precipitated his psychotic breakdown.

Dealing with deviant behavior has always been my forte. For me it started at an early age growing up on the wrong side of the tracks in a dysfunctional family. During my college years, I worked as an orderly in an acute care locked psychiatric facility. My job was to provide a safe environment for patients and staff. I was good at it. If I didn't have a therapeutic rapport with my patients, I had an authoritative one. But dealing with the criminally insane takes it toll, and after five years I was ready to move on.

I graduated in 1982 with a degree in nursing. I couldn't wait to provide care to sane people who actually appreciated my therapeutic interventions. Nursing liberated me in more ways than one. My chosen occupation was in big demand nation wide and I could move anywhere in the country and find employment. It was an opportunity to escape and move thirteen hundred miles away from my dysfunctional father and brother. It was an opportunity to purge my life of family clutter, find happiness, and thrive. I was able to fulfill a life long dream of moving out west to live on a ranch in the mountains of Colorado.

But the family voodoo that binds the innocent to a life of sacrifice and suffering in a dysfunctional dance of co-dependence is never truly escapable except by death. This is a true story written as it happened.never truly escapable except by death. This is a true story written as it happened.

Just when I thought I was out, they pulled me back in! Michael Corleone: The Godfather Part III

1

The Rescue:

No problem is so bad that dousing it with alcohol won't make it worse.

Teepee Wind Ranch, I said answering the phone.

Geno, it's your dad. I was sitting here watching T.V. and he let himself in.

Who did?

My landlord, he just used his key and let himself in. He walked around my apartment like I wasn't even here. He went into my refrigerator; I'm pretty sure he's the one who's been poisoning my food.

Really . . . you think it's him?

Yeah . . . I'm pretty sure; that bastard has been poisoning me for weeks now. They have my phone bugged, too; they're probably listening to us right now. I'll call you right back! he says, slamming down the phone.

I always expected my ninety-two-year-old father to die alone in his apartment, that one day his neighbors would ask, Hey, where's Frank? his body decomposing in a recliner poised in front of the television, Fox News blasting in the background. But no, my father had to go insane first.

His delusions of persecution had escalated over the last month starting with the loss of his driver's license. I was hoping he could keep it together a little longer. Hold out for another week until I got there—insanity, it seems, waits for no one.

It's Geno, I sigh, answering the phone again.

Yeah, he's gone now.

Well don't eat any food if you think it's poisoned.

I won't . . . that bastard's been poisoning me for weeks.

If that's the case and you have been poisoned, we need to get you to the emergency room fast! Where do you want to go . . . Fairview Southdale?

Yeah, I think I better.

What I'll do is call you an ambulance. You just sit there and wait for them to come and when you see them pull up let them in. I want you to do exactly what they say. Understand, they will keep you safe, and take you to the hospital were it's safe.

When are you coming?

I'll catch the first flight out in the morning and be there by one.

"Okay . . . I'll see you tomorrow, goodbye.

I call the Richfield Police Department, and they dispatch an ambulance to Frank's apartment with instructions to take him to Fairview Southdale Hospital. I hang up the phone and turn to my wife Robin. I've got to go . . . I can't wait any longer.

We knew it was coming to this.

Yeah, but that doesn't make it any easier, I say, grabbing my wallet.

I climb the stairs to the loft and log onto Orbitz.com trying to book a flight on the morning shuttle from Cortez, Colorado, to Denver International, then on to Minneapolis. I might as well be reading Latin. I can't concentrate on any of it; my mind is assimilating a hundred variables— all bad.

Honey, will you help me?

Robin ascends the steps and joins me in the loft.

Will you book me the first flight out of Cortez in the morning? I don't care about the layover in Denver.

When do you want to fly back?

Better make it . . . five, maybe six days.

Do you want me to buy Frank a ticket?

No . . . He's crazier than hell; no way am I putting him on a plane.

Robin takes the helm at the computer Orbitzing me a plane ticket, while I go to the basement and pull a suitcase and some documents from the safe. I grab my Power of Attorney and blank forms so Frank can deem me his medical guardian. There is also a list of phone numbers and contacts, people I have spoken to at the Minneapolis Social Services Department and Senior Protective Services over the last several weeks.

In these situations the only thing better than being a nurse is being married to one. Robin and I have fifty years of combined nursing experience in the health care industry. This knowledge is invaluable in these situations. In my line of work I see lay people go through this process all the time; sooner or later we all end up on the receiving end.

I had Frank designate me his POA ten years ago anticipating this day might arrive, knowing full well my brother would be useless, and the sole responsibility of dealing with a crisis would rest on my shoulders.

What else? I think; scouring the bottom of the safe searching for the antiquated key ring that may, or may not, hold the keys to Frank's apartment. Some of the keys look vaguely familiar, but it's been twenty-eight years since I've used them.

Packing my suitcase, I dwell on some of the conversations I've had with Frank over the last month leading up to this moment.

I failed the eye exam, he said. They won't give me my driver's license. What am I going to do now?

There's a reason for that Frank; you're ninety-two years old. Chances are you shouldn't be driving anyway.

Well, after I have my cataract surgery, they should give it back to me.

I'll make some phone calls and see if they don't have a ride-share program for seniors. They can help you get to the doctors, the grocery store, and things like that.

Oh, I don't need that, he said. The lady upstairs said she would take me to my eye appointment. She's taken me to the grocery store a few times and says she's here to help, so don't worry about me.

Regardless, you can't count on others to put their lives on hold in order to help you whenever you need them.

What?

I'm still going to look into a senior ride-share program for . . .

Okay then, goodbye. He hangs up on me.

He's been selectively deaf for forty years; if something contradicts his dysfunctional world, he can't hear it, therefore, doesn't feel obligated to acknowledge.

I have spoken with Frank every Saturday evening for as long as I can remember. Usually he calls me to complain about some new ache or pain that has him running over to his HMO again. I recall our conversation the week of his cataract surgery.

Geno, are you there? Here, I'll have you talk to my personal attendant, he said all happy, handing the phone over to his neighbor.

Hi Gene, this is Gloria your dad's neighbor.

Thanks for helping Frank with his eye appointment. I sure appreciate it.

Oh, it's no bother; everyone in the apartment sure likes Frank and we would do anything to help him.

Well, I don't want him becoming a burden; after all, you have your own life and can't be taking care of him all the time.

Oh no . . . really it's no bother. He needs to have eye drops in his eye twice a day for a week, so I come down here and do it for him. Really, I don't mind.

Well, I just don't want him becoming a problem, that's all.

Oh no, it's fine. I don't mind.

Okay then, would you put Frank back on please?

I told Frank, Well, it sounds like everything is cool there.

Yeah, everything is fine—goodbye

I hung up the phone thinking how fortunate he was to have someone help him, but knowing Frank, this won't last long.

It was eight days later when I got the call from his Personal Attendant.

Hi Gene, this is Gloria. I'm having some problems with your father. He keeps calling me all the time; I don't have a minute to myself. The other day he called me over at my daughter's house, and when I told him it was off limits he got real short with me. Then I went out and ran a few errands . . . you know, and when I came back he confronted me at the door and said, 'Were the hell have you been?' You know I don't have to take this from him. I told him I would help him with his eye drops after surgery and those are all done now . . . I saw that through, but now he's just getting to be too needy.

I understand perfectly Gloria. I anticipated this would hap . . .

He keeps making appointments at his doctor's office, then calls back and cancels them. He keeps telling me, Something's wrong, and he's real forgetful. I'm worried about him, but I have a life of my own, you know, and . . .

Listen Gloria, I'm booking a flight next week and am coming up there. In the meantime I want you to stay away from him. Don't answer his calls. Just keep away from him until I get there.

"Okay Gene, I'm sorry I didn't . . .

It's not your fault. He's been loosing his mind for some time now, and I need to get up there and straighten things out.

What are you going to do? Do you think he needs to go to a nursing home?

Honestly, I can't say until I get up there and assess the situation.

Well, I'll stay away from him, if you think that's what I should do.

Please, and thanks again for all you have done for him. Bye now. I knew the moment I hung up the phone Frank's days of living alone in that apartment were history. I just hoped he wouldn't do anything rash and get himself thrown in jail or protective services before I got there.

The next day, Frank called in a panic, Gloria won't answer my calls. I don't know what I did, but she must be mad at me. I never did anything to hurt her. There's something wrong with my phone. It keeps ringing and when I pick it up nobody's there, but I can hear voices in the background.

Don't worry about it Frank. I'm coming up there the first of next week and I'll get everything straightened out.

Okay then, goodbye." Thirty minutes later my phone rang again.

It's that bitch upstairs. She's in on it; they're all in on it.

In on what?

They bugged my phone!

Who bugged your phone?

The cops—they're all in on it together.

Listen to me very closely. I want you to stay away from those people. Don't go outside until I get there, and keep your doors locked. Do you hear me? I'm coming up there and we'll get this whole mess straightened out.

Okay then, bye.

That conversation was yesterday, and now, I have an emergency on my hands.

I place my suitcase by the back door, poised for an early morning getaway. Robin has booked me a 6:30 flight on the puddle jumper to Denver. She says that while she was purchasing the ticket the price jumped up one hundred and thirty dollars for a total of seven hundred dollars and change.

All that's left to do is call my buddy Dave to give him my ETA so he can pick me up at the airport, but first I call the emergency room, and ask for the emergency room physician. I tell her to expect Frank's arrival. She informs me he has already arrived and is stable, calm, and oriented to persons and place.

I'm not surprised, I tell her. He can pull it together for a few routine questions. Ask him if there is anything wrong with his phone; ask him if he has eaten any poisoned food lately.

She assures me she will admit him for a psych evaluation and have one of his HMO doctors come over to see him. Next I call my brother to tell him I just dispatched an ambulance to take Frank to the hospital. It's evening and Billy is already ten beers into the night and rambles on about some important things he needs to do, and how he can't possible be there for a couple of days to deal with his fathers crisis. That's cool by me; I'm not looking forward to carrying his baggage on top of everything else. I learned thirty years ago never to expect anything from him, and so far he's lived up to my every expectation.

With immediate plans in play for tomorrow, I settle into a recliner in front of the woodstove with Robin. We slide in a movie, an action adventure. I stare at the screen seeing neither action nor adventure; I might as well be watching a test pattern. My mind is sorting variables trying to anticipate what I'm walking into, and all I know for certain: there's never a good time for a crisis, especially when it involves a crazy man.

...

The Cortez airport is a mausoleum at six in the morning; the terminal isn't much bigger than my henhouse, and I see a few disgruntled passengers who foolishly arrived an hour early as the airline typically suggests. They are spread out amongst the twenty or so random chairs, as if they might defile one another should they accidentally touch.

When the time comes to board, I put my cowboy boots, belt buckle and other miscellaneous items in the basket on the conveyer. A big fellow, whom I've seen numerous times over the years at various establishments in town, waves a wand over my body after I pass through the metal detector. He tells me he wants a more thorough search. Apparently, purchasing a ticket online twelve hours before my flight has triggered a red flag with the Department of Homeland Security. He asks me to stand in a designated spot and does a pat search. I guess taking it in the ass on the price of the ticket wasn't enough—they feel obligated to shake me down like a terror suspect.

I bet if I was an Arab you wouldn't be doing this to me.

Oh, yes sir . . . we would; it doesn't make any difference.

I bet the ACLU would have something to say about that.

Thanks for your cooperation, sir, and enjoy your flight.

Thank you . . . I feel safer already.

Gathering my jean jacket and boots, I get dressed and join the other eight passengers boarding the plane. We are greeted by the pilot at the top of the stairs. Hi, thanks for flying Great Lakes Air, says an anemic looking girl with a mouthful of braces and a bad case of acne under a layer of foundation. The co-pilot is seated in the cockpit; he turns around and shoots us a smile as we board. He bears a familiar resemblance to the quarterback on my son's high school football team.

At least he's not reading the flight manual. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer my pilots to have graying temples and have flown at least two hundred sorties over Iraq during the first golf war. The plane takes off without a hitch and we ascend over the San Juan Mountains. From my window seat I can see my favorite elk hunting spot and various other mountains I have scaled over the years.

After thirty minutes we reach maximum altitude where pillows of gossamer clouds glide by, enhancing the splendor of an exceptional sunrise. Frozen snow-covered peaks, rivers, and lakes imprisoned by winter's grip, glide beneath our wings. When the plane starts to descend, we are absorbed by a dark cloudbank that has engulfed the city of Denver.

The plane bounces violently over currents of thick air, and then the pilot's voice comes over the intercom. Please keep your seat belts fastened. We will be landing at Denver International Airport in approximately twelve minutes. Usually, by now, I could see the sprawling city below, but this cloud is dense as clay, and at times it feels like the plane is flying backward. When I feel the rumble of emerging wing flaps, I know touch down is at hand, yet I see nothing but mocha. The moment I catch a glimpse of the runway, the wheels touch down. We taxi to the terminal where they park the shuttle planes and are greeted by pilot-girl as we get off the plane.

Thank you so much, I tell her. You did a really fine job in that weather.

Why thank you, she says, beaming with genuine gratitude.

I have a two hour layover and I'm hell bent on business. It's time to grab a quiet spot and write down some thoughts as to the best way to deal with this shit storm I'm about to walk into. I haven't had a drink of alcohol since last November and I'm grateful to be sober; no problem is so bad that dousing it with booze won't make it worse.

Employing reason, logic, and a double espresso, I contemplate my options drawing up two algorithms, one based on whether Frank is mentally competent, and the other on whether he's insane. The common denominator between the two: under no circumstance is he returning to that apartment to live alone.

There are so many variables to consider, it's like sifting through pieces of a puzzle—a what to do about Frank puzzle. If Frank is deemed competent, I need to get legal guardianship or a medical power of attorney. This is crucial, so I can legally say where he goes to live out his days and what level of care he should receive. If he's deemed competent, and refuses to appoint me as his medical guardian, what legal recourse do I have? This question can only be answered by an attorney. (Call attorney) I write at the top of my to-do list.

If he's deemed incompetent, can he still appoint me as medical guardian or will I have to go through probate? Again this question is suitable for an attorney, but common sense tells me the answer is probate. After studying my notes yet again, I deduce the best case scenario would be a competent Frank doing the right thing for a change, appointing me his legal guardian.

The other issue to consider is how to protect his assets from the state of Minnesota. I have a copy of his Last Will and Testament and it clearly states my brother and I are to inherit his estate when he dies. We're not talking about a fortune here—maybe fifty grand in cash. I learned from my previous conversations with Social Services that, although Frank has Medicare, this will not pay for a nursing home placement. That is the roll of Medicaid, but to qualify for Medicaid, one has to be impoverished. If Frank had to go into a nursing home now, the state would seize his assets including his Social Security income. They would use it to pay for his care, and only after his assets were depleted, could he qualify for Medicaid.

The irony here is you or a loved one may be a millionaire paying out of pocket for nursing home care while sharing a room with a street person on Medicaid, someone who's never had a pot to piss in or a window to through it out of. Yet there you are, side by side receiving the same level of care. Herein lies the moral of the story: divest your assets amongst your loved ones. Set up a trust and appoint a medical guardian before you become incapacitated, that's what the smart money in this country has been doing for years.

Which reminds me, (execute durable power of attorney) I write and annotate with a star at the top of my to-do list. With the last gulp of coffee, I assume my role in what surely will be the recurrent theme of this epic cluster fuck: hurry up and wait.

I learned a long time ago, when your favorite dog gets run over by a truck, the same day you get fired from your job, the same day you discover your girl friend of six years is screwing your best friend—funny how these things happen in triplicate. I learned when your whole world collapses and you can't tumble any further into the pit of despair, it's always easier to cope when you're physically fit. I crave exercise like a junky craves smack. I feel the urge to run some laps around this terminal right now, drop down and do sets of one arm push-ups, but I'd hate to stand out in the crowd. Besides, airport security would call the bomb squad if I stray too far from my carry on bag.

* * *

After an uneventful flight into Minneapolis, I'm standing in front